


Sanctuary

by Sandtalon



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Invisible Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Panic Attacks, Pining, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has a Tail, Snusmumriken | Snufkin is a Cat, but it happened when i wrote it, cant believe i forgot to tag the most important one lol, hes gonna burn signs in this but im not sure where yet, it might count as emotional manipulation but just barely? so im putting that, its not the point of the fic, just one but its there, moomin: what do you mean those are gloves i thought they were your hands, no abuse just people being hecking annoying, not that hes ever seen them but he has them!!, snufkin has paws and a tail, these FOOLS dont realize they like each other, this is longer than I thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandtalon/pseuds/Sandtalon
Summary: There was a tumblr post abt what if Snufkin had paws and a tail, but they're invisible and he wears gloves to hide it so everyone assumes they're hands and no tail??? Thus its multi chapter fic time.Snufkin runs into a spot of bother in the mountains, and returns early to Moominvalley. Too-ticky helps as best she can through the winter months, but now that spring has arrived, he must return. Being invisible would worry them, but never arriving would be even worse.





	1. Winter travel

**Author's Note:**

> Too-ticky is a non-binary she/her winter lesbian and I would fight the Lady of the Cold for her.

Snufkin stares through his hands at the empty tent floor.

The wind whistles past unheard. He can’t move, frozen by what he sees. Or rather, what he doesn’t. He’s never really seen his hands fully- both have always been invisible from the knuckles up, and misty from the wrist. Supposedly he had a tail, not that he has any idea what it looks like. A neat combination of gloves, boots, and heavy coat have always hidden that anything was missing.

The problem now isn’t that invisibility has started- it’s that it’s grown. Snufkin slowly rolls down his sleeve- which is completely gone- and traces the vanishing back, hoping he’s at least somewhat visible.

He’s known, logically, that his invisibility was a problem. He just never wanted to deal with it. Dealing with it means coming to terms with the fact that something’s missing from his life for so long that he’s started to vanish, which really isn’t going to be fun or adventurous at all.

Snufkin sets about making dinner, running through recent events in his mind. Maybe there’s a link between his new invisibility and the old.

 

 

 

He’d been traveling through the mountains when a family had waved him in from the road. It’s not really all that bad to meet those he passes by and swap stories, so he’d joined them for a dinner. It was a decent time, though the entire family took more energy than he could really give. It was as though he was reading off a script of who they wanted him to be, and every time he spoke as himself, an awkard pause would desend around the table. It was exhausting after the first few minutes.

He could manage. The night passed quickly, and by evening Snufkin was excited to go before morning.

Until the family had told him their son was leaving in the same morning, and asked that Snufkin show him directions to the nearest town. He’d never agreed, technically. Then again, he hadn’t been able to say no without being rude. The awkward pauses from him asking where to hang up his coat, or telling them of the mountain valleys rather than whatever it was they were hoping for had sapped his mental strength. There wasn’t enough energy left to bear another.

He’d intended to part ways at the nearest path… until the boy had followed him.

Snufkin knows the fear of being alone. He knows the fear of being forgotten during his travels, and he understands why the boy had followed him. Still, he seems to know enough of the land to be just fine on his own. Story after story and excuse after excuse to accompany Snufkin just until the next mountain, next village, and _where was he going anyway?_

Snufkin needed space. He keeps to himself as a general rule, and feels caged in with the kind of constant companionship other people tell him is normal. The constant presence grated on his nerves. One night, the invisibility usually on his paws and tail had begun to creep up.

He’d been mostly gone by morning.

“You’ve gone all misty-like,” The boy had said the next morning. Snufkin bit back a sharp reply.

“It happens sometimes,” he’d said vaguely. “If it happens to anyone near you, they’ll know what they need most.”

The boy had nodded as though it weren’t a big deal, shouldering his backpack. “Well, let’s go then.”

“You go.” Snufkin stayed at the fire. The boy had frozen.

“…What?”

Another awkward pause descended on the clearing. Snufkin clenched his teeth, wishing endlessly for the moment to be over. He gave up when the boy began to sob.

“Fine, let’s go-“ His voice was gone. _Oh, that’s not good._

The boy wiped his eyes, recovering from his misery awefully quickly, and began calling Snufkin’s name. He’d heard the protests, cries, platitudes and even the threats, but not really registered them.

It’s hard to do that when you’ve gone invisible for the first time.

He’d packed up his tent, put out the fire, and left. The boy didn’t see him go. It wasn’t until Snufkin was a fair distance from the forest that he’d found even his hat was invisible.

 

 

 

Snufkin rummages around in his bag. Perhaps music will help this time as well. He begins to play, but no sound comes out.

_That’s not good_. His voice has only vanished once before, when he was very small and still new to the vagabond lifestyle. Even then, he’d been able to play.

Snufkin had known that these mountains weren’t welcoming. He’d gotten into a spot of bother recently, sure… and maybe the people who had tried to tie him down had brought some issues but…. He’d been prepared.

That should have made a difference, right?

The warmer lands are further south. He should keep going- once the mountains are done, he can rest in the warm summer light; he can wander the road where nobody needs him.

Where people won’t try to talk to him constantly.

Where nobody counts on him to do this and that without telling him what the task even is.

Where nobody blames him for their own mistakes.

Where he can be alone.

Snufkin needs to be alone. He needs time to himself, just as he needs sunlight on his face, stew on the campfire, and a blanket to sleep under. But the last time he started to vanish more, a secluded valley in the north stopped it from continuing.

It only makes sense then, that he goes back. Maybe the mountain folk won’t be so bad on the return trip. Not like they could stop him anyway, invisible as he is.

Maybe he can go without talking to anyone at all.

 

 

 

Too-ticky loves the winter. She loves the way peace settles over Moominvalley and all the small creatures who’ve been almost-forgotten make their way to warm homes of their liking. It’s a perfect season, just as all the others are wonderful in their own rights.

Winter’s only a month left- although her food supplies could take three more easily what with Mymble off visiting her sister. She’s on her way back to the beach house when a tree branch snaps nearby.

Too-ticky stops to watch as snow crunches under footsteps. The tracks appear, steadily making their way down Moominvalley. A familiar backpack floats behind it, harmonica held as if in a pocket.

“Oh no,” Too-ticky whispers, and the invisible person stumbles in surprise. “Oh dear, sorry if I scared you.”

The backpack drops as though its owner had fallen over. Too-ticky hops off her skis, approaching hesitantly.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you so early this year,” she begins softly. “Are you heading back, Snufkin?”

The snow shifts, as though its owner were curling up and Too-ticky stops. The backpack is shivering. She stays where she is, rather than crowd him.

“I’ve got the stove on at home, and it looks as though you’ve been out a while.” Too-ticky offers a hand, not really expecting it to be taken but offering nonetheless. “When folks are in this weather for too long, the Lady of the Cold comes around.”

A cold, gloved hand wraps around Too-ticky’s, and she hides her surprise by helping the traveler stand. “There we are. Hold on, now – it’s easy to get lost in this winter snow.”

Too-ticky collects her skis, leading Snufkin - it must be him, that harmonica and backpack only belonged to one person – to the beach house. Something must be awfully wrong for him to be here over the winter, let alone invisible.

Something’s gone terribly wrong, but they’ve a warm shelter from the cold. That’s what matters now.

 

 

 

“There you are,” Too-ticky says as invisible creatures pass Snufkin a bowl of soup. They sound like shrews.

The beach house is warm and welcoming, and Snufkin’s nose runs from the sudden change in temperature. He’s sure his ears and nose must be quite red, were they visible. Too-ticky drops a thick coat around his shoulders before sitting down on the other side of the stove.

“Careful with the soup now – it’s quite hot.”

Snufkin burns his tongue just as she says this. An upside to this invisibility is that nobody can hear the yelp he makes. Too-ticky doesn’t ask where he’s been, or even speculate as to what happened. She simply lets him be, which is more than he could really ask.

The snow passes over head, wind rushing at the small beach house in a vain attempt to knock it over. Snufkin knows logically he’s not equipped to camp in the snow. Even getting this far had been a struggle. Tooticky stares out at the storm, humming to herself.

“You’re welcome to stay till this storm passes, but I’d understand if you need to be going.”

Snufkin sets aside his bowl. He should stay, really. But he’s been caged in too recently. Too-ticky catches up with him at the door as he unlatches it.

“You forgot this,” she says quietly, offering him the coat.

She’s not stopping him.

He can go when he wants to?

Too-ticky presses the coat into his newly-visible gloves gently, and Snufkin stares down at it. He’d been expecting to be forced to stay. Logically he knows that Too-ticky would never, but the memory of constant voices and guilt tripping excuses had convinced him otherwise. It’s strange after everything, to be listened to.

It’s good to have a choice again.

Snufkin hangs up the coat, setting his backpack below it. Too-ticky heads back to the stove as he closes the door. He’ll stay a while longer. Traveling in this winter snow is dangerous when he’s only equipped for warmer weather.

 

 

 

Snufkin wakes up suddenly. He’s out the door and a good few steps down the walkway before the winter chill sets in and he realizes this is the beach house, rather than a log cabin or enclosed tent. He’s safe here. He can leave if he wants to.

There’s a hole in the ice. Snufkin approaches cautiously, not sure if the ice can hold his weight. It can, and he climbs down the ladder propped against its edge. Too-ticky is fishing on a nearby rock with bait and tackle next to her. She points to another nearby rock, the invitation clear.

Snufkin climbs back out in search of his own fishing rod. When he returns they don’t exchange words, each enjoying the silence. When he catches sight of the reflection, his hat is visible.

The days begin to pass. Every night, Snufkin packs up his bag, ready to leave. Sometimes he does, for a day or two. Too-ticky makes sure he has an extra layer and proper supplies before helping clear the doorway. The invisible creatures that lodge with her through the winter squeak a goodbye, and nobody protests his going. He comes back out of his own choice, and the instincts that lead him to warmth.

Too-ticky is a blessing in her own Too-ticky way. She speaks rarely, and the long silences are comfortable- a stark contrast to his compulsory traveling partner. She contributes her wisdom whenever he seems to need it but never forces him to listen.

It’s the ability to leave that slowly makes his coat and boots visible, although progress is far from steady and he’s still entirely gone. One night his feet are back, visible for the first time ever. Snufkin goes about his day with lighter steps after that, reveling in this small miracle.

He stops by Moomins house once. It’s buried in snow right up to the top floor, and Snufkin leaves immediately. Somehow seeing it so still feels wrong. Coming by early was a mistake, and his boots disappear before he reaches the mailbox.

Too-ticky seems to know something has changed when he returns three days later.

“It’s a lonely world out there,” she remarks while putting away her music box. A creature under the table continues to play its flute. “More so to lost souls who drift between homes. That’s why we all want to belong.”

Snufkin simply nods, pulling out his harmonica without much thought. _The lost souls… That can’t be him, can it?_ He doesn’t quite register that the music actually plays until midway through the song. Too-ticky nods along, and squeaking in the corner tells him the invisible shrews are likely dancing.

It’s so good to make music again.

He plays for all the winter, all the struggle and quiet. He plays to remember what he lost, and the curiosity of having lost it so quickly. The song is a little bit melancholy and a little bit slow as it goes on, but it’s music.

He’s getting better, even if it can still hurt sometimes.

 

 

 

Time passes, and the sea ice breaks in great booming crashes. Nature calls out signs of spring’s return in many voices. A couple brave birds begin to trill again. Too-ticky and Snufkin are out gathering firewood when Snufkin finds the first flower of the season.

“Too-ticky,” he calls before realizing and clapping one hand over his mouth in surprise.

“Congratulations,” she says. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

“Thank you.” Snufkin’s voice cracks from lack of use. “I found a glacier lily.”

“Oh, what a fine little thing it is!”

Snufkin nods, tugging his hat down quickly. Just because he has a voice doesn’t mean he trusts it.

“Sunshine and flower petals after winter snow is one of natures greatest gifts.” Too-ticky looks out over the forest, where greenery is beginning to poke through frost and snow. The quiet rush of melting ice fills the valley. “You know when it’s coming, but it always appears when we least expect it. A rare treasure.”

“It is,” Snufkin says quietly. “Will you be returning to the cottage soon? I heard you stay with Mymble’s daughter.”

“She’ll be waiting for me. Will you be returning, yourself? I’m sure they’d understand if you need time.”

The question catches Snufkin off guard. “I’m… I’m not sure.”

Too-ticky sits down on a large rock, as though the matter were settled but letting him continue if he wants. Snufkin leans against a tree after a moment.

“I’d like to return, but…”

The birdsong is faint, but still present. Hibernation will be over soon, and the valley will stir from their winter slumber. He’d be making his way back now on any other year. He’d be composing a spring tune, but now the thought leaves his mouth dry and feet dragging.

“I’m scared of spring,” Snufkin says eventually, finally able to voice to what’s been haunting him. “Of returning like this.”

“None of them will see you any less of a person, no matter how visible you are,” Too-ticky says rather bluntly.

“Maybe, but I don’t want this summer to be any different from the others.”

Too-ticky nods, waiting for him to sort out his thoughts.

“It’s so, so much,” Snufkin finishes slowly. “Too much has changed.”

“All things are so very uncertain. Change is such a natural part of all things, and that’s something we all can count on.”

Snufkin runs his paws over his harmonica they’re visible up to the knuckles again. “I don’t want things to change.”

“It’s natural to feel so.” Too-ticky’s expression is just the tiniest bit melancholy. “Change is what makes connections between souls. We live by moments together and apart, growing stronger for both having existed.”

Snufkin considers this. Too-ticky waits for a moment before continuing.

“What do _you_ need to do?” she asks gently, and it’s so to the point that Snufkin replies without really processing his words.

“I need to go back. But I need more time, too.”

Too-ticky doesn’t ask why. “What will you do, then?” she says instead, and Snufkin feels his chest grow tight.

“I’ll go when I’m ready.”

Too-ticky nods, accepting this. “I’ll be stopping by Moomin house for tea once they’re up.”

“You visit every year?”

“Not particularly. Moominmama asked me to stop by after last year’s adventure.”

He has no idea what adventure that refers to, but Moomin will likely tell him all about it.

Too-ticky hops up, gathering her firewood. “Would you like me to pass a message, or leave it be?”

Snufkin thinks of the bridge where Moomin will be waiting, and the campground he uses every year. “Actually…”

 

 

 

Moomin wakes up to birdsong and the smell of fresh air. It must be spring. Snufkin will be arriving anytime- maybe he’s already here!

He hurries down the rope ladder and shouts a greeting to Little My who’s awake and tossing pinecones at the cellar door. No time to talk- he’s got urgent waiting to do. Moomin hurries to the bridge, where a camp site sits empty. He must have woken up early.

Moomin sits, ears perked for the spring tune, and waits.

 

 

 

“I’ll be off, then,” Too-ticky says when Snufkin hands her a seemingly blank piece of paper. “I’ll be at the cottage should you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Snufkin says. “For listening.”

“It’s every creatures duty to listen.” Too-ticky winks, a small smile on her face. “That’s why we have ears- just promise me you’ll keep talking, Snufkin. There’s lots of waiting friends to be met, and still more to be seen.”

Too-ticky makes her way off into the forest towards Moomin house, where one particular troll listens for the sound of a spring tune.


	2. Love You Through It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS BEEN A WEEK????? OH MY GOSH THAT SO LONG????? IM SORRY YALL
> 
> I've been having trouble writing Moomin bc all the versions are so different. If you see any glaring swaps between versions lmk but they should be p well blended.

“I wonder where Snufkin is,” Moomin murmurs, playing with the porch’s chipping paint. “He’s not usually this late.”

Little My huffs. “Oh will you shut it already? Snufkin this, Snufkin that- you’d almost expect him to be your girlfriend rather than Snorkmaiden.”

“We broke up last spring, remember?” Moomin replies, not really paying attention. His eyes are fixed on the stream, past snow turning to slush and budding flowerbeds. It seems empty, somehow.

“Maybe he got lost. In fact, I bet he decided to come late.”

Moomin spares a moment to glare at her. “He would never get lost, and you know it-”

“Oh, look. Someone’s coming.”

“Snufkin?!” Moomin shoots from his seat. Little My huffs and scurries away, muttering under her breath about love and those too fool to see past their own large noses. It must be gossip about someone else.

It’s not Snufkin who approaches down the beach path, but Too-ticky. She makes her way around a puddle, not giving the empty campsite a second glance as she passes it. Moominmama opens the front door to greet their neighbor as Moomin returns to watching the bridge.

“Too-ticky! Happy spring, I hope the winter treated you well!”

“Happy spring,” Too-ticky says with little of her usual joy. “I’ve got a letter here for Moomintroll, if you don’t mind a break before tea.”

Moomin perks up. “Is everything all right?”

Too-ticky hands him a piece of paper. “I expect so with time and listening. You’ll need a flashlight to read it, though.”

“Oh.” Moomin takes the letter as if it were spun glass. “Somebody’s invisible, aren’t they?”

 “Remember, Moomintroll. We can’t love souls out of trouble, but we can love them through it.” Too-ticky gives him a soft, reassuring smile before following Moominmama inside.

It’s not really the answer he was expecting, but Too-ticky has her own ways of saying these things.

 

 

 

He finds a flashlight in papa’s study. Rather than join Mama and Too-ticky downstairs, he sits down on the study floor, turns on the flashlight, and opens the letter. Spidery handwriting is thrown onto the carpet, though too dim to see in the bright afternoon light. Huffing, Moomin shuts the curtains and aims the flashlight again.

_No._

_Oh, no._

He scans the shadowy words once, then twice, before running downstairs with letter and flashlight in hand. Little My yells for him to watch out from atop the banister, but he has no time for that. He needs to know if this is real. It has to be a joke, it has to be-

Too-ticky is taking tea with Mama at the table. They stop talking when Moomin slams the letter down, rattling dishes.

“Is this real?” he asks, desperately hoping for someone – anyone – to say _yes, it was, it wasn’t a funny joke and I’m sorry, Snufkin is fine._ Too-ticky doesn’t say any of these things.

“He came back in the winter,” she quietly tells him instead.

“No. No, this has to be a joke.”

“Moomintroll?” Mama puts down her cup. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Snufkin.” Moomin passes her the note before heading to the door. “He’s gone invisible.”

Mama glances to Too-ticky, who sets her tea down slowly.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she says, and Mama places a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sure you did the best you could.”

Moomin rushes upstairs to his room, hoping the high windows and papa’s binoculars will help him spot- what, a tent? A backpack?

Anything.

They letter stays on the table, sunlight filtering through.

 

_Moomin-_

_Hope the winter was a good one. It was a little chilly down South but we made do. Not much happened, anyway._

_You’ve probably noticed it’s a bit hard to read. I’m taking a bit longer to come back this year, hope that’s all right. I just need a little time. Please don’t worry, everything’s fine and I’ll be around before summer. Don’t fish the stream dry before I get there!_

_Cheerio-_

_Snufkin_

 

Moomin doesn’t come down for dinner. He doesn’t say much in the coming weeks, either.

 

 

 

Snufkin hums as he walks to the crest of Moomin Valley, enjoying the sound of his own voice. It’s still occasionally quiet, as if it were not quite certain it wanted to stay. He’ll enjoy what he has, when he has it.

It’s two weeks into spring, and he finally feels a little freer. It’s strange to spend the season without Moomin, but he’s needed this time to be alone. He’s so desperately needed to recharge after a long winter of company- some bad, some good. His feet and clothes are fully visible, though it seems unlikely the rest will show anytime soon. He owes Too-ticky’s quiet support over winter for the return of his voice, but he hasn’t considered stopping by for a visit. They’re both solitary creatures, though in different ways.

Finally, he’s ready to set up camp by the bridge. Snufkin raises his harmonica and begins his new spring tune as he travels down the hill. He knows that being away has likely been rough for Moomin, and wants to get back as soon as he can. Maybe spring won’t change too much this time. If it does, he’ll deal with it somehow.

He’s ready now.

 

 

 

Moomin throws another stone into the creek. Little My and Snorkmaiden invited him to pick flowers in the eastern meadows, but he can’t leave when Snufkin might come. Sure, it’s been two weeks and he only promised to come before summer, but-

A high note, followed by two low ones drift through the valley. Moomin freezes, ears straining in case it wasn’t his imagination.

He catches the sweet call of Snufkin’s harmonica and _runs._

Moomin stumbles across the bridge, so hurried that he can’t be bothered to watch his step. The song is a little sad this year, a little slow. It’s warm at the same time, with a trilling note that makes it seem like something exciting is just around the corner. Moomin catches sight of a green hat hiding the owners face and runs faster to meet him.

“Snufkin!” Moomin’s voice breaks as he calls out. _“Snufkin!”_

_“Moomintroll.”_

Snufkin begins to run too, pocketing his harmonica and reaching out with gloved hands - how had he never noticed that Snufkin always wore _gloves?_ They crash into each other with a hug and overbalance, toppling to the ground. Moomin never wants to let go.

His friend is home.

“I’ve missed you,” Moomin says, and Snufkin draws in a shaky breath but he keeps going. “I was so scared.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t back sooner.”

Moomin sits back in the grass to reply, and the fact that his friend really is invisible hits him. There’s no messy hair or carefree smile under the hat, just emptiness. Moomin cups his friends face gently between both paws and looks where he knows Snufkins eyes are.

“You are enough,” he says, emphasizing the words he’s wanted to say since he read that letter. “And it’s okay to take time for yourself. It’s always okay, and I’ll be waiting every time.”

Snufkin nods shakily, resting a gloved hand over Moomin’s paw – and it is a glove.

_How had he never noticed?_

Moomin lets go, realizing that if he holds his friends face any longer it would leave a funny twist in his stomach, and he’s not quite keen on feeling that after last fall.

Snufkin doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs off his backpack where he sits and reaches down to fiddle with the grass. Moomin scoots back, realizing his friend may need space. How terrible this is, that he can’t even read his friends expression and pick up on those little cues he gives. He can’t watch Snufkin’s eyes narrow at the trout or a particularly interesting bug, he can’t step away at the thinning of a smile or lean closer at his friend’s smirk.

They’re going to have to talk a lot more this summer. Maybe that’s good- granny’s recipe book did say listening was the cure, after all.

Snufkin gets up, dragging his backpack over the campsite. He doesn’t unpack his tent, instead opting for a fishing rod that he holds loosely.

Moomin catches his other hand as they walk towards the stream.

“What shall we do today? I saw a worm in the bank mud.”

He can hear the smile in Snufkins voice when his friend replies. “Well… it _is_ minnow season.”

 

 

Moominmama looks out the window when she hears the harmonica. She watches the boys- both hers, though in different ways – crash into each other and embrace. She sets another place at the table, just in case.

Moominpapa chuckles when he looks up from his manuscript. Summer has begun. He goes back to work, knowing that if he’s needed, he’ll be called. Best he avoids docks and bridges lest Snufkin get any ideas.

Little My pauses from hiding briars on the cellar steps. “Oh, great. Now there’s two of them,” she grumbles. Her paw pricks on one of the thorns. She goes back to arranging the briars, smiling a little wider.

 

 

 

Snufkin shoots out a paw into the mud, snagging a worm in the bank mud. It’s a wriggler, and Snufkin only just manages to get it into the old can Moomin offers. They’ve got quite a few by now, so he wades out to wash off the worst of the mud. Moomin joins him, cleaning now brown his paws.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to take off the gloves?”

Snufkin freezes, not having realized he was washing his hands as usual. He’d figured out how to wash his gloves and hands together long ago. It’s been a long time since Moominmama placed him in front of a sink and declared dirty children needed clean paws to eat indoors.

“ _Oh-_ not that you have to, if you don’t want to. I really don’t mind either way. I’m sorry if it sounded like you have to, because you don’t…”

“I suppose so,” Snufkin interrupts. He slips them off, feeling rather self-conscious of having washed his paws with them on. He shouldn’t worry, logically. He’s done it before lots of times. It’s just that everyone knows now.

_They know now._

They might realize he’s been invisible this whole time. Then they’ll worry and Moomin’s always been sensitive- he’ll likely blame himself and it will be all Snufkin’s fault. Snufkin scrubs his hands harder, only to gasp when his own nail? Claw? He doesn’t know, only that it’s cut into his palm and oh no he’s bleeding-

Moomin gently tugs Snufkin back to the dry bankside. He’s vaguely aware that he’s breathing faster, though why is anyone’s guess. Moomin says something- Snufkin doesn’t really register it beyond that it’s a question. He nods and hopes that was the right answer.

His paw is bleeding, probably. He can’t see it. Can’t see the cut. Snufkin stares at the space where it should be and tries not to think about how this is just more of a bother, and how he wants so desperately to be alone but wants to be around Moomin at the same time and how he doesn’t know which is better for him-

Moomin gently presses a familiar travel first aid kit into Snufkin’s line of sight, jolting him out of his thoughts. He sits by Snufkin and rubs his friend’s shoulders as the mumrik takes deep breaths. Once feeling a little better, Snufkin forages through his kit and begins the slow process of making sure an invisible cut is clean and bandaged.

“I’m sorry about the gloves.”

“Wasn’t you,” Snufkin says, and his voice is much quieter than he’d like. “Just… other things. Thoughts. Memories.”

“…Oh. Well I’m sorry about that, too.”

“Not all bad,” Snufkin clarifies, finishing his work. It’s not a lie, and the last thing he wants is Moomin worrying needlessly. He tugs the gloves back on to keep the concern at a minimum. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. They’re definitely not on because he’s afraid of someone else realizing he doesn’t have hands.

The more of him that appears visible, the better. He’ll be fine without the worry. He always has, always will be.

Snufkin gets up, and Moomin takes the que that Snufkin would like to switch locations. He doesn’t know why he just… needs to be somewhere different sometimes. He just does. As if the earth had soaked up too many memories from a moment and couldn’t take any more. He wants a new moment to begin.

Moomin doesn’t push him for what happened, and Snufkin appreciates that more than he’d care to admit. They sit together on the bridge, and when Snufkin casts his line its almost as though nothing has changed. It’s better.

 _‘Change is what makes connections between souls.’_ Too-ticky had said. _‘We live by moments together and apart, growing stronger for both having existed.’_ She was right, too.

Moomin leans back to admire the clouds, and spring air settles between them.

“If you need to talk, I’m here.”

Snufkin glances over, and Moomin absentmindedly traces designs on the bridge between them. “And if you don’t then that’s okay, too.”

What did he do to gain a friend like this? Snufkin stares down at this float bobbing in the current. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“Take your time.”

“It has taken some time,” Snufkin says as quietly as the trees above them. “But I’m still not sure about it.”

Moomin leans back. “I think, and I’m not too sure, but I think that that’s normal – to feel like you don’t know, I mean.”

Snufkin casts his line again. “Interesting. You sound like you’ve met someone invisible before.”

“Just once, this past fall.”

“That explains it. Too-ticky mentioned a fall adventure.”

“I wouldn’t call it an adventure, but it was certainly a learning experience.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve decided to listen more.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Snufkin finds himself saying. Moomin sits up beside him, eyes shining.

“Am I really?!”

Snufkin turns to meet eyes with his friend. He’s missed Moomin quite a bit this summer, and it must be getting to him. The first days have always been like this. An awkward dance where both readjust to the other’s quirks and boundaries after so long alone.

“Yes.”

Snufkin and Moomin turn at a loud cough upstream. Little My stands with her arms crossed, and her expression even crosser. She grins when Moomin glares back.

“If you two are quite done staring into each other’s eyes, Mama says Snufkin ought to join us for dinner.”

Moomin squeaks and Snufkin can feel his hair fluffing up slightly. They weren’t-

 _“_ We weren’t _staring into each other’s eyes,”_ Moomin yells, and Little My pulls an awful face that involves sticking out her tongue and going cross-eyed. It looks hideous and she laughs proudly at Moomin’s horrified gasp before running back to the house.

Moomin sighs wearily, lying back down. “She’s awful sometimes.”

“She’d Little My,” Snufkin says neutrally. “I don’t suppose you’d like being cooped up with that many siblings.”

“No, I suppose not. Still, that isn’t any reason for her to be so… _rude.”_

“She shows she cares, in her own way.”

Moomin rolls his eyes in response. The stream drifts on, and fish refuse to bite as minutes tick by. The drip-drip of snow is nearly all gone, only there when Snufkin listens hard. Birds have already filled the air with song, but now they sing together.

It sounds like a tune.

Snufkin puts his fishing down and slips the old harmonica out of his pocket. The tune he plays is mostly unfinished. It’s like the song his father taught him once, so long ago when he remembers a red hat and noisy cabin. The pieces he can’t remember are filled in by whatever the spring calls him to play.

He rather likes the way it turns out. Moomin whistles the last bit.

“That sounded familiar.”

“Maybe.” Snufkin slips his harmonica away and lies down next to his friend. “It’s good to play again.”

The trees rustle overhead, and Snufkin revels in the smell of new growth. It’s something in the wind that’s not quite cut herbs and not quite earth, but it’s new and restful all at once. He’s drifting off into a doze when Moomin sits up, brushing his shoulder.

“Snufkin?”

_“Mrrp?”_

“Oh! You sound like a cat.”

“Hm?”

“Well- I was wondering. And you don’t have to tell me- in fact I’d better not ask. I’m sorry. Do you think we should go down to the beach soon?” Moomin stares down at the creek, messing with his tail. Whatever the real question was must be bothering him quite a bit.

“We should go when it’s warmer. I’d like to hear your other question, though.” Snufkin smiles when Moomin turns around.

“Promise you won’t answer if you don’t want to?”

Snufkin sets his hat on the bridge. “I promise.”

“All right… Too-ticky said you were here in the winter. I just keep wondering why.”

 _Oh._ That’s not what he’d expected. “When my harmonica didn’t work, that’s when I knew I needed to come back. There wasn’t really much thought to it beyond that – I go where my heart calls me.”

“And you came here,” Moomin whispers.

Snufkin places his hat over his face, grateful Moomin can’t see the redness in his cheeks. Hopefully it’s not a cold. “This seems to be the spot for curing invisibility, anyway. Don’t know why this old valley always does the trick, but here we are.”

“You’ve been invisible before?!”

Snufkin frowns. He hadn’t meant for that to slip out. Moomin takes his silence as confirmation, which isn’t wrong, but it is concerning how worried Moomin looks. Snufkin sits up, setting the hat on Moomins head to catch his attention and taking Moomins paws.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Snufkin says, pouring all his confidence into these words. “It’s rarely even on my mind, and nobody has treated me badly-“ That’s a lie, and he can’t outright lie to Moomin. He _can’t._

“Almost nobody has treated me badly, and I’m doing better. I’m not-“ Snufkin’s voice catches, and he can’t finish.

_I’m not unhappy._

If he had to choose one lie for Moomin to believe, it’s this one. It’s wrong, and Snufkin knows that it’s wrong, and he can’t bring himself to tell it. So instead, he’s tucked away any problems. There’s a reason he’s been wearing gloves. Moomin glances down at the same gloved hands and back up at where Snufkin’s eyes should be.

“I don’t believe that it’s nothing to worry about,” he says, and something in Snufkin’s heart breaks at the quiet resilience in Moomin’s voice. “Turning invisible is always something to worry about.”

“I’m doing better,” Snufkin repeats, but it’s starting to sound like a lie. Moomin shuffles closer, hesitantly drawing Snufkin into a hug. He doesn’t fully return it, but he doesn’t shy away either.

“I thought I was, anyway.”

“Oh, Snufkin.” Moomin returns the hat with a free paw, and Snufkin tugs it down. “I’m sorry.”

Admitting it out loud makes it real, and he dosn’t want to do that. He wants to go up into the caves and hide from his problems forever. Maybe he’ll be a hermit and survive on pine needle tea and mushrooms. He’ll have a big cave all to himself and when he tires of that cave, he’ll go to a different cave, and maybe he’ll even live behind a big waterfall where to roar of the rapids lulls him to sleep.

_Yes, that’s much more preferable._

Moomin lets him lean against him, and they go back to fishing till late into the night. Moominmama comes to call them inside once the sun begins casting long shadows.

“I’ve made plenty for all, if you’d like to join,” she adds, keeping the option open. Snufkin nods, following Moomin inside. Moominpapa and Little My are already at the table raconously debating the proper times for fireworks. The food is good, the company respectful, and the house warm. Snufkin says little besides the odd compliment to Moominmama on the cooking.

They let him be.

Mostly, anyway. Little My noisily scoots her chair over when Moominpapa is happily telling Moomin of old adventures. She leans towards Snufkin conspiratorially.

“Bet you don’t know what Moomin did last year over winter.”

“Moomin was asleep all of winter,” Snufkin whispers back as he takes a sip of tea.

“You should ask him about that.” Little My grins like a cat that got the canary. Warily, Snufkin takes another sip and raises his eyebrow. Not that she can see him, but it’s the thought that counts. Little My leans closer to whisper in his ear.

“He drank paint.”

Snufkin promptly spits out the water in this mouth, and Little My laughs so hard she falls off her chair. At least one of them is having fun.

After dinner Moominmama asked him gently if he wanted to go back to his tent, or if he wanted to stay. He did want to stay, but Little My surely had some nefarious plan cooking, and he’d likely have to come up with some excuse to avoid it. Somehow this excuse culminated in him peeking through the kitchen door to where Moominmama was washing dishes.

“May I help, Mama?”

Moominmama glances over, a smile in her eyes. “Of course. You wash, I’ll dry and put them away?”

Snufkin pads over in response, setting his gloves on the table before washing his paws. They’re still invisible, much like the rest of him besides his feet. The soap smells of herbs Moominmama makes it with and feels soft on his paws.

Moominmama takes the dripping plate he offers. “We were all very glad when you came today, Snufkin.”

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. You know what you need best.”

“Thank you,” Snufkin says quietly. “It’s good to hear that again.”

Moominmama reaches for a mug. “Do you mind me asking what happened? No is always an okay answer.”

“I don’t mind talking about it. I just don’t know how.” Snufkin flicks water from his paws and grabs the silverware, dunking it in the bottom of the sink to sit as he works on them one-by-one. “It wasn’t even anything big, just a lot of little moments that…”

The faucet squeaks as he turns it off, and Snufkin stares out the kitchen window for a moment. He hasn’t tried to put it in words.

“It shouldn’t have been a bother, really.”

“Little things can build up over time.” Moominmama starts arranging the forks as they’re done. “Just because somethings not big, doesn’t mean it’s not important.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

Moominmama gives him a smile on her way to the cupboard, and he knows everything is going to be all right. Laughter rolls through the house from where Moominpapa is beating both Little My and Moomin at cards, and the warm light shines straight into his soul. Snufkin is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time I write the word straight in regards to snufkin my brain's like That Cant Be Right.


	3. Blueberry Jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little My: im here to assist in anarchy
> 
> Moomin: sir, are you aware that you are a cat
> 
> Snufkin: just,, let me be a hermit,, let me live in caves and eat fish please

Snufkin wakes up to the sound of birdsong. For a moment he lies still, hoping his mountain traveling companion isn’t up, and he can catch a few moments of solitude before-

“Snufkin?”

 _Oh. Right._ It’s been so long, but the memories are still all too fresh. This isn’t the first time he’s woken up and thought it was still winter in Moominvalley. It’s happening less and less often, and Snufkin will take what progress he can. He rolls up his blanket before slipping out of the tent. Moomin is by the stream, two plates of pancakes and blueberry jam waiting beside him.

“Moomintroll.”

“Snufkin! I mean, uh.” Moomin catches himself when the jam is almost knocked over. “…Snufkin.”

It’s such a small thing that never ceases to make Snufkin smile.

“I brought some pancakes from breakfast. Care to join me?”

“Of course.”

Moomin doesn’t hesitate to apply himself to the food with gusto, and Snufkin settles down beside him. Moominmama’s cooking is the best, and he’d rather not waste any time before digging in. The best way to tell that food is truly good, is to listen for the silence that descends on everybody once they start eating. Snufkin finishes half of his pancakes before sighing happily.

“I missed Mama’s cooking.”

“Isn’t it the best?” Moomin licks his plate clean and scoots over to wash his plate in the river. Snufkin finishes as well before joining his friend at the water’s edge. When he slips off his gloves, Snufkin nearly drops his plate in the water. There’s a misty outline of paws. It’s not much – only there when he looks for it – but it’s something.

He sits for a moment, tracing phantom outlines against the river’s reflection. They look darker in color and sharper than he expected- the gloves likely had something to do with that.

“Snufkin? Are you all right?”

“Not to worry,” Snufkin says quickly. The water parts around his paws, leaving perfect spaces where they should be.

Moomin lies down on the grass carefully, his own plate already clean. “But I do worry,” he says. “You’re invisible, Snufkin. I can’t not worry, and if this is making it worse then I’ll stop talking about it, but I care, and I want you to be happy and safe.”

Snufkin doesn’t want to be the reason his friend is unhappy. In fact, the statement only makes him feel worse because he’s not visible yet, and he should be. Snufkin scrubs the plate roughly, trying to pour all his frustration into the action.

“It’s taking so long.” Snufkin stacks the plate on top of Moomin’s. He dries his paws on his coat before tugging on his gloves, and flops down by his friend to stare blankly at riverweed bobbing just under the water’s surface. “I should be visible by now. This should be over and done with and spring should go back to normal.”

Moomin reaches out, offering a hug, but Snufkin just can’t do physical contact right now. He shakes his head just a bit, and Moomin takes his paw back.

 “Mama says sometimes talking helps.”

“I’m not sure I know _how_ to talk about it,” Snufkin says slowly. How could he, when all this was brought on by just… so much. “And when I do, I’m… I don’t want to sound like I’m making it up.”

“I trust you.” Moomin shifts closer, and Snufkin knows how badly his friend wants to offer a hug but is holding back for him. “And whatever happened, happened to _you._ I don’t get to say what’s real or not about it. You do.”

“It’s silly, though. I don’t even know why it made me…” he gestures vaguely at himself. “And I’ve never really talked about it anyway. Even if I could there’d be no place to start.”

“It’s all right to feel that,” Moomin says at length. “I’ll be here to listen, when you do.”

Snufkin loves the way he leaves it at that. Oh, how he’s missed having an option. It’s why he takes a deep breath and tries to put what happened into words.

“I’m just so tired,” he says softly, missing the way Moomin glances up beside him. “Every once in a while, I want to meet people and share stories but… there isn’t a place for that. And the moment I start to meet others, it…”

“It’s too much,” Moomin finishes when he doesn’t, and Snufkin nods. The bobbing of his hat will speak for him.

“It’s too much,” he echoes, wishing those words could fit all the pressure to be someone he’s not and the constricting responsibilities that come with being tied to others. There’s no life for him in sitting still or chaperoning unwanted guests.

“Moominvalley will always be here,” Moomin says softly, and Snufkin looks over to his friend. “No matter how often you need to leave – we’ll be waiting. When you’re ready to come back, we’ll be here.”

When Snufkin rubs a paw over his face wearily, Moomin reaches out hesitantly as if expecting Snufkin to lean away at any moment. He doesn’t. _For now,_ he thinks, _maybe this will help._ So Snufkin slips his paw into Moomins, and they watch light dance across the water together.

It grounds him, just a little.

 

 

 

The days begin to pass. Snufkin’s hands aren’t any more visible, but the misty lines aren’t fading. He resigns himself to never seeing them, and instead focuses on getting his face to appear. Even if he’s just a floating head it’ll at least get everyone to stop worrying. Unfortunately, these types of things tend to start in hands, tail, and feet. No matter how far Snufkin comes out of his shell, it seems that he won’t get better unless the original problem is solved. What a bother. Maybe he will go become a hermit in the caves, after all.

One afternoon, he’s pondering this very fact by the river and falling into an almost-doze. The edge of sleep is a treacherous place to be, especially on lazy spring days while the Moomins are off boating and grass has grown softer than any mattress. It also serves as a warning by rustling when little beasts are sneaking up on napping mumriks. Snufkin places his hat over his face and hopes it’s a dream.

“I know why you’re not visible yet,” Little My says too loudly for the peaceful afternoon.

“And what might that be?”

“You need to stop moping around,” Little My announces, pulling Snufkin out of his doze.

“I’m not moping, I’m napping.”

“Well its kind of hard to tell when you don’t have a face.”

Snufkin sighs, getting up and dusting himself off. “I do. You just can’t see it.”

“Same difference.” Little My scurries away before turning at the path. “Let’s go break into the park. A little birdie told me the park keeper was trying to expand it.”

“What?!”

Little My beams victoriously at Snufkins indignant tone. “That’s more like it.”

The park keeper is not there when they arrive, but they mess with the new fences and tear down a few signs anyway. Snufkin makes sure to only destroy the expansion - he’s not really in the mood for the police to chase him this summer. They’ll probably ignore most trouble so long as it’s at a minimum.

Thank goodness rules in Moominvalley are so weird. Maybe the cops are just lazy. It’s not like he’s hit any of the Moominvalley ones over the head with a signpost… yet. They don’t seem to communicate with other stations much, or he’d have to be much more careful.

After so long, it’s almost cathartic to get back into the rhythm of things. Snufkin is feeling much better when he finally lights the pile of signs on fire. Little My throws another sign on the pile just to watch the burst of embers as it crackles and flames lick the sky. The park keeper’s yell interrupts them.

“What are you – _hey!_ Those are my signs you’re burnin’, get back here!”

 _“Scatter!”_ Little My runs for it, cackling for all she’s worth, and Snufkin doesn’t hesitate. He tosses one last sign on the pile and _runs._

They bolt off into the woods- mumriks and mymbles tend to be much more light-footed than park keepers. Snufkin feels a weight descend on his hat as he goes. Little My screams with laughter from her new perch, gesturing rudely at the park keeper.

“That’ll teach you to mess with us!”

“Or with the forest,” Snufkin adds, and his sister’s hysterics are cut off when a tree branch _whaps_ her in the face. Whoops.

 

 

 

Once Little My is home and Snufkin back at his camp, he tugs off his gloves and stares in awe at his whole, visible paws. They’ve got dark fur right down to his fingertips, and he spends much of the evening marveling at the fact that they exist whenever he adds wood to the fire or makes his dinner.

How strange it is, to have not seen one’s own hands for years.

He looks up when footsteps pound down the path to Moominhouse. His friend must be missing dinner- the golden light of dusk makes everything look as though it’s been dipped in honey.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Moomin asks, and Snufkin wordlessly nods, pouring out another bowlful of soup. “Thanks. I saw from the window- your hands.”

“It’s strange to finally see them.” Snufkin holds one out, and Moomin takes it. They’ve held hands often before, but this is the first time Snufkin hasn’t been wearing his gloves. Moomin’s paw is soft and Snufkin focuses on the feeling of cold spring air on his face and the beating of his heart- anything but the way Moomin is holding his paw so carefully.

“You have _paws_. With _little paw pads._ I can't believe I never noticed.”

“Well... I suppose I’ve only ever worn gloves around Moominvalley.”

“Why?” Moomin lets go of his paw and Snufkin tries not to feel disappointed. He busies himself with stirring the soup instead and talks more to distract himself than to think about what he’s saying. It's a mistake.

“At this point it’s habit. I wear them all winter long – the south doesn’t take kindly to strange things, and missing hands on travelers are one of those. It tends to worry people or scare them if they’ve never seen invisibility before.” Snufkin sits back on the log before what he’d just admitted hits him like a brick. He whips his head around to find Moomin staring at him in shock.

“Do you mean to say… all this time your paws have been…”

“Only a bit,” he says as reassuringly as he can, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.

Moomin scrunches up his face, which may have been adorable if the worry painted across it weren’t directed at him. Snufkin sighs, scooting closer and showing Moomin his paw again. Worry tends to grow upon meeting the unknown.

Snufkin outlines his knuckles, omitting the thumb. “This much was usually there. The rest is new.”

“Oh, Snufkin. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I never really wanted to hide it,” he murmurs, staring into the fire. “After a while I just stopped trying to tell people. Then I’d been here long enough that you’d all worry so I’ve kept it to myself.”

“I care.” Moomin reaches out as though he’d like to hug Snufkin but thought better of it. “I’d listen to you. About anything, at any time really, and as much or as little as you’d like.”

“You would?”

“I like hearing you talk,” Moomin says simply and that little sentence warms Snufkin more than any campfire. It rests between them for the rest of the evening, and both find themselves thinking about how lucky they are to have met the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me crying while writing "his friend" abt Moomin and Snufkin bc they're both blind to feelings. Also I apologize for slow updates but im really putting quality over timeframe on this one.
> 
> (btw what snufkins paws look like is up for interpretation!)


	4. Rosehip Tea and Fireflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK!!! SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG!!!

Fading sunlight arches through the Moominhouse windows, hitting the opposite wall as evening nears. It should be a merry time of day as it’s members finish their dinner. Today, it’s too quiet. The sound of burnt rice being scraped from the large pot Moomin cooked it in echoes through every room. It’s quiet even with Little My making a racket outside. Moominpapa had decided to go on a thrilling adventure and gone with Moominmama down the coast. They’ll be out till tomorrow evening at least.

It’s not so bad, being left alone to his own devices. The real problem is that the house is getting dark. As any creature who’s used to company knows, there’s nothing quite like the night for making empty houses feel impossible. Times like these make him understand just a bit of Snufkin’s aversion to living under a roof for too long. Moomin sits, the quiet pressing in on him like a monster just outside the door waiting, _waiting, w a i t i n g -_

Metal crashes outside, and Moomin jumps. When he bursts through the front door, Little My stomps again on the ground. She’s got a metal bucket tied to the bottom of each foot, making her twice as tall.

“I- what are you doing?”

“I’m walking.” Little My takes another step, the bucket on her foot clattering loudly. “What else would I be doing?”

“You know what I meant.”

Little My rolls her eyes and stomps towards the fields. “I’m off to catch a night toad with Snorkmaiden!”

Moomin runs after her rather than return to the empty house. “With Snorkmaiden? You two won’t have much luck like that. They’ll hear you coming from miles away!”

“We’ll see.” Little My stomps across the bridge, ending the discussion there.

Darkness slowly grows as Moomin slows to a stop, until the field is all grey-blues and silvery shadows. They sky is still streaked in red, though little light makes its way down. Moomin is taking a moment to marvel at the color when a quiet voice startles him.

“Hullo, Moomintroll.”

Moomin whirls around, met with the sight of Snufkin’s hat and the empty space underneath. His friend can be so quiet sometimes.

“Sorry, thought I was a bit louder. It’s a fine night for fireflies.” It is- now that Moomin looks to the meadows, hundreds of bright yellow-green lights are flickering as they weave lazily through the grass. “Would you like to, um.”

“Lantern?”

“Lantern,” Snufkin confirms.

Fireflies dance around them as Moomin hurries back to the house, pulling out the large jar they’d always used for this. Snufkin follows, sorting out the old lid with little holes punched in from the other jars. The house doesn’t feel nearly so lonely anymore.

They hurry back outside, and Snufkin crouches, cat-like on the porch. Moomin catches the first one just before his friend springs, pouncing on the soft grass. Slowly, they fill the jar up. The little bugs don’t seem to care much about clever Moomintrolls or hunting Snufkins. They bob along, avoiding quick paws with little trouble. The lantern is almost bright enough when clattering metal rings out from the forest.

Little My’s stomping turns into a run as rain begins to fall. Moomin sweeps up the jar, letting the fireflies go free to shelter as they see fit. Snufkin catches his paw, pulling Moomin towards the house as the rain worsens. Snorkmaiden and Little My hurry after them as the wind begins to howl. Once at the porch, they look out at the field now covered in a grey curtain of rain. It’s only then that Little My’s strange set-up catches Snufkin’s attention.

“Is that for picking apples?”

Little My glances down at the now muddy pails tied to her feet. “I’m puddle-proof,” she replies confidently. Snufkin nods as though this makes all the sense in the world.

Snorkmaiden crosses her arms. “You said it was to scare fishes! What’s the real reason?”

“There isn’t one, of course. You lot can stay to catch cold, but I’m going to dry off!”

 

 

 

Snufkin ties a blanket corner to one of the ceiling hooks. It had been Moomin’s idea to create a fort indoors after rain spoiled their plans, but the turn of events isn’t all bad. Apparently Moominmama and Moominpapa are out on another adventure, though they’d promised to be back before long. Instead, Snorkmaiden is over. She’s got a surprisingly keen eye for architecture and lighting, and has appointed herself queen of the castle.

“Moomintroll, if you could put that light by the kitchen that’d be lovely. Oh, and Snufkin? If you don’t mind lighting a fire afterwards, it would be a great help.”

“And I’ve got the jam tarts!” Little My dives into the fort with a heaping plate. “When are you lazy lumps coming in, anyway?”

“We’re quite busy, you know- making the fort _you’re_ sitting in!” Moomin lifts the tent flap. “Excuse me.”

“About time.”

Snufkin hops inside, making his way over the mountain of cushions Little My has found. He wasn’t aware there were this many in Moominhouse. Little My has kept the pillows away from the fireplace, which Snorkmaiden has also carefully avoided with the blanket fort. They’ve repurposed Little My’s buckets with water and sand, just in case.

A few minutes later, the fire is burning cheerily and they’re all quite comfortable. Snorkmaiden has outdone herself- inventing must run in the family.

It’s too lovely, is the problem. Snufkin slips out quietly. The others see him leave but don’t stop him- they all know how much time he needs to himself. The mumrik sits down on the old worn front steps, listening to rain drum on rooftiles.

It’s music, in its own way.

Snufkin sits, and he thinks. He thinks back to his arrival in winter, and to staying in the Beachhouse with Too-ticky. He thinks about the mountains, and how he might have avoided all this by setting sail instead of hiking south. He thinks about disappearing into the woods for a few days and pretending nothing is wrong.

Experience dictates that it won’t work, but the option is very tempting.

Porch floorboards squeak behind him.

“Sorry,” Snufkin says without turning around.

“Oh, don’t you go apologizing, now.” Snorkmaiden’s voice is as merry as the laughter from inside. “Might I join you?”

He thinks about shrugging or asking her to leave, but in truth he’s not opposed to conversation right now. Pretending everything is okay is the issue, and yet it’s also what he wants most. So he nods and then adds “yes, go ahead” when he remembers the old green hat is inside and not on his head.

“Well, it’s a good thing I brought tea, then.” She settles down just far enough away. “What a day it is, hm?”

Snufkin startles at this, and Snorkmaiden laughs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you stare off into the woods every spare second! I’m surprised you stayed so long as you did.”

The rain patter against the glass, and Snufkin takes a sip from his tea. It’s rosehip, the kind Snorkmaiden keeps hidden in a little jar under the guest room floorboards - he’d found it once, long ago. She’d sworn him to secrecy back then. It had been raining then as well when Snorkmaiden had sat down beside him and explained how she’d ordered the little tea box by mail and couldn’t get more for another five years.

Fancy rosehip tea to Snorkmaiden is more precious than treasure to a dragon. It’s too sweet for a mumrik’s taste, but the thought of sharing something so valuable is warm. They sit and watch the rain, but Snorkmaiden is not Moomin- she likes her conversations like her tea: sweet and unmistakable.

“We ought to go looking for herbs once this rain lets up. Mama was wanting some from the wood paths.”

“The paths will be slick. We should wait a day.”

“Oh, you’re right. Still, we really ought to get Moomintroll around. Usually you two have gone to the beach or mountains by now.”

That’s news. Snufkin keeps his paws wrapped around the mug tightly. It’s his fault. His fault for not being visible yet. He can’t go hide in the woods, or so he tells himself. Hermits don’t get to drink rosehip tea with their friends.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, and Snorkmaiden looks up when his voice is too quiet to be normal. “It’s my fault.”

“How is it your fault? Oh dear… I’ve said something terrible, haven’t I?”

Snufkin really should assure her that no, it’s him and no, she didn’t. He’s expecting the awkward pause that’s almost gone from his head to descend on them. He’ll have to apologize for stopping the conversation and the awkward silence won’t leave until he’s said the right words, done the right thing.

Snorkmaiden doesn’t frown at him expectantly. Instead, she puts down her tea and turns to him fully. “I’m sorry. I should have worded that differently, and I promise I’ll try to say it better.”

Snufkin watches her out of the corner of his eye, expecting the _‘but,’_ the guilt, the excuses. They don’t come.

“What I meant was, the weather this year has been awfully unpredictable and kept you two away from them. I was thinking about taking advantage of the next sunny day before it’s gone. I’ll say it better next time.”

“You aren’t… upset?”

“Why- no, I’m not.” Snorkmaiden reaches over to as if to pat his hand, stopping when he leans back slightly. Over the past two years she’s gotten better at reading the way he asks for and refuses contact. “I’m apologizing because _I_ was wrong, not you.”

Snufkin doesn’t move, and Snorkmaiden turns back to the rain. It helps, just a bit to not have eyes on him. Snufkin settles back as well, albeit with more tension than earlier.

Snorkmaiden glances southward, past the forest. “I’m the one who said something that hurt you, and it was wrong. My mistake is never your fault, Snufkin.”

That whole concept… it’s been a while, since he thought like that. He’s not fully there, but maybe someday. Snorkmaiden hears the shaky breath he takes, and holds out an arm in invitation. _Well. Perhaps a hug may help._ Snufkin scoots closer so they sit side-by-side watching the rain.

“Who hurt you,” Snorkmaiden whispers mostly to herself, and Snufkin shakes his head.

“I’m still looking for words. Thank you for the tea.”

Snorkmaiden sips from her own cup. “I _did_ get it as a special rainy-day treat, you know. Some things are better when they’re enjoyed together.”

“Too-ticky told you that, didn’t she?”

“Mama, actually.”

“They’re wiser than the rest of us put together.”

“Maybe,” Snorkmaiden says thoughtfully. “Don’t sell yourself short, now.”

That gets a smile out of Snufkin. “Yourself as well.”

Inside the blanket fort, Little My swipes another jam tart and pokes Moomin all in one motion. “You’ve gotten distracted again. If you’re not going to finish that story, we should go be miserable outside as well.”

“I don’t think they’re miserable,” Moomin says, watching the two friends chat quietly beyond the front door. “Some people quite like the rain, you know.”

“Then they’re idiots. Anyway, what happened next?”

 

 

 

“Snufkin?”

“Hm?”

“Why is the park keeper leaving my house?”

Snufkin sets his hat aside and sits up from the sunny flower patch in a shower of petals. Sure enough, the park keeper is stomping away from Moomin House in a right terrible temper. Snufkin crouches in the tall flowers, hoping his green coat will disguise him.

“No idea.”

The park keeper has spotted Moomin and is heading closer. He’s stepped on several beautiful flowers while he’s at it. Oh, what Snufkin wouldn’t do to tear down the whole park and watch the stubborn hemulin’s expression as nature reclaims its own land.

“Does this have anything to do with the burnt signs I found out in the western woods,” Moomin asks casually.

Snufkin ducks lower, ready to spring at the approaching figure. He wiggles slightly, finding his balance amidst the damp earth and flower stems. Moomin can’t see the way his tail twitches.

“Possibly. I’m not quite sure where they ended up.”

The park keeping is almost on them. Snufkin waits a moment longer until he’s right next to them - _now!_

Snufkin springs up with a shout, jumping as high as he can. The park keeper stumbles back with a startled yell. It gives Snufkin enough time to grab Moomin’s paw and pull his friend up.

“Run, Moomintroll, _run!”_

Moomin gasps in surprise before joining him. Their feet pound the earth like drums as they run through the flowered fields of Moominvalley. The park keeper is well behind them, but Moomin shows no signs of slowing, so Snufkin practically dances through the flowers after his friend.

Running to escape turns into running for the joy of it once the park keeper stops. The stubborn humulin’s angry voice is lost to the sound of breathless laughter as the friends race on through Moominvalley. When they reach a hilltop, Moomin’s momentum carries him tumbling down into the stream. Snufkin loses his hat when the slope is steeper than he’d thought.

He rolls down the hill after his friend and trips into the stream at the bottom. Snufkin gasps in shock when the icy water soaks him through, then laughs at what just happened.

“Did- did you see his face?! Oh, I’ll treasure that one for years to come!”

Moomin chuckles, then joins him in giddy laughter. They must look quite a sight, covered in grass stains and petals while giggling like fools in the cold shallows. Snufkin’s got a stich in his side and Moomin’s stained green from grass, but it’s the most fun he’s had since….

… a very long time.

Moomin wipes a paw under his eyes, glances at Snufkin, and bursts into giggles all over again. Snufkin ends up laughing along when the infectious giggles redouble.

“What?” Snufkin asks, pawing absentmindedly at his face when the laughter only grows stronger. _“What?!”_

“You - Oh dear –“ Moomin doubles over, and Snufkin crosses his arms, managing to keep a straight face. Not that it matters, what with his… condition. The reminder is enough to sober him up slightly. Then Moomin snorts in his laughter and Snufkin can’t help but smile.

 “You’ve got a couple branches in your hair - I mean I think it’s your hair - and it looks like… like…” Moomin stifles his giggles before squeaking out _“bunny ears”_ and shaking with hiccupy laughter.

Snufkin reaches up, poking his fingers on the two twigs atop his head. He grins crookedly and splashes Moomin. “More like I look like _you_ now!”

“What- hey!” Moomin splashes him back, and the two dissolve into a water fight. Its ungainly and chaotic but great fun, particularly on such a warm day. They end up shoving water back and forth in the deeper part of the stream, soaked to the bone but all the merrier for it. Snufkin slips after a strong splash, and grabs onto Moomin for balance. Instead, they both fall for a second time that day. The shock is lessened now that they’re already drenched.

Snufkin surfaces with raspy laughter, takes one look at his friend, and cracks up all over again. Moomin has lakeweed draped around his shoulders like a scarf. His friend strikes a pose before reaching over to knock twigs from Snufkin’s hair. While wading to shore, they occasionally glance at each other and snort at what just happened.

Snufkin absentmindedly wrings water from his coat once ashore. “Best we get dry before catching a cold. Do you suppose Mama would mind if I take a bath at your house?”

“Not at all, I can almost see your face from all the dirt- oh!” Moomin stares past Snufkin’s coat for a moment before looking to where his face should be with wide eyes. “Is that- _you have a tail?!”_

Snufkin looks back in surprise, to where his visible tail gently sways above the grass. He’s never seen it before- or at least doesn’t remember it. The tail is darker in than his hair and fluffier at the end. It’s also covered in river muck. Snufkin reaches out and swats at it on instinct. It keeps flicking from side to side, and he reaches for it again without really thinking. _If it would just stay still-_

 “Snufkin, wait- oh!” Moomin reaches out when Snufkin overbalances into the grass. “Are you all right?”

Snufkin stares up at Moomin, covered in river muck with still-twitching visible tail held between visible paws. He has very little idea how he ended up in this position. “…Yes?”

“You never said you had a tail.”

“I suppose so,” Snufkin says, swallowing down his panic. He’d never considered it might someday be visible. “Funny how that happens. Anyway, let’s get dried off-“

“Wait! You don’t mean you’ve had a tail this whole time?”

“Well,” Snufkin says quietly as though he’s holding a very large secret in his hands rather than his own tail, “just because it’s not seen doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Moomin doesn’t look quite sure how to respond, but he helps his best friend up. “I suppose. It’s still rather a shock.”

Snufkin shrugs, climbing the hill to pick up his hat from where it had fallen.

“Snufkin?”

“Yes, Moomintroll?”

“… Do you mean to say your tail has always been invisible?”

Snufkin freezes. Moomin backtracks instantly.

“I mean, not that you have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s perfectly fine if-“

“It has.” Snufkin plops his hat on, wishing the conversation would be done with but knowing it’s a necessary one. “This is the first time I’ve seen it, actually. Like my paws.”

“The first time… ever?”

Snufkin shrugs, tugging his hat down. “It’s not a bad thing, Moomin. It just is.”

 _“Oh,”_ is all Moomin says in the quiet voice he saves for Snufkin in the autumn mornings and baby birds who’ve just learned to fly. “I’m happy it’s back.”

“So am I.”

Moomin takes his paw instead of replying aloud. Snufkin lets himself be led back to where the smell of pie wafts through an open kitchen window.

“Have you ever considered tying a bow in it?”

“Well if I do, shouldn’t you?”

Their tails intertwine on the way, and Snufkin finds himself enjoying the closeness of the gesture. He hopes Moomin won’t ask more about it, because he’s really not ready to think about what this means-

“I bet Mama has some spare ribbon. We could match!”

Snufkin jolts out of his train of thought. “Really?”

“For luck.” Moomin thinks for a moment before adding, “besides, this way if I get lonely over winter, it’ll be like you’re there.”

“I’d like that,” Snufkin says softly. It works the other way around, too. When they find soft blue-green ribbon in Mama’s sewing basket, Snufkin ties the bow around Moomin’s tail, and Moomin ties one around Snufkin’s.

They match now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, srry I took so long getting this posted. im p proud of it so I really want it to be done right, y'know? there's one, maybe two more chapters left.
> 
> I love all of your comments and each one really makes my day, I'm sorry I haven't had the time to respond to them recently!! they all make me super super happy (/^o^)/
> 
> Edit: I know its been like a month, I promise I havent forgotten abt this fic- inspiration is running low (T.T)


	5. Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK!!!!! srry it took so long too get this posted.
> 
> Moominpapa shows up. Too-ticky stops by. Moomin & Snufkin go stargazing. All is well.

Snufkin sits high in the apple tree, throwing fruit down whenever Moomin is ready to catch it. It’s one of those days where the forest calls to him, and the taste of adventure drips from every leaf and curling fern. He so badly wants to climb a mountain today, but the apples are just right for pie.

“Do you suppose Sniff knows Little My is up to no good,” he asks casually as cackling laughter spills out through the air. “She’s been hoarding forks again.”

“He always knows when Little My is planning something.”

“How does he do it,” Snufkin wonders, climbing up to get a better view of the fields. Sure enough, Sniff is watching Little My warily.

“Mama says every creature is strong in their own way, even if they don’t know _which_ way yet,” Moomin supplies, and Snufkin finds himself smiling at how similar they are.

“I suppose mine would say something similar, if I ever bothered to ask.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her,” Moomin says, climbing up to the same branch. “You’re welcome to share my mother, of course- Mama has enough love for everyone in the valley.”

“And Papa has stories enough for two valleys.”

Moomin giggles at the thought, settling down so they’re back to back high up in the leaves. “Just imagine, Papa going off on an adventure to tell his stories to every creature in the next valley! He’d have a grand time.”

“Next time we need an adventure, then.”

“Snufkin?”

“Hm?”

“That’s an extraordinary idea.”

“It’s a conclusion,” he manages through the beating of his heart. He’s still feeling rather proud of himself. “Say, did you know there’ll be a meteor shower tonight?”

“Really? Oh, would it be all right if I were to stay out with you tonight, Snufkin? I’d love to see it.”

“I don’t see why not.”

Moomin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a hushed _‘yes!’_ and hesitantly leans closer to Snufkin. The mumrik sighs, scooting back so Moomin can sit comfortably. He can’t do hugs now, but this is fine. It’s nice, actually.

 

 

 

That night, Moomin carries the big blue and yellow quilt Mama made years ago down to Snufkin’s campground. He has to step carefully or the corner till slip down under his feet, and the quilt is too old, to delicate to risk tripping over. Part of him believes that if it’s washed too many times, the memories in it will bleed away into the soap. So he’s careful.

Snufkin is waiting, two scuffed mugs of mint tea held in visible paws. He looks like a part of the forest, lit in flickering orange firelight and standing perfectly still. They spread one blanket out by the fire, just close enough for their feet to stay warm in the chill. Snufkin pulls the quilt up, and they lean back just as the first streaks of light begin arcing delicately across the sky. It reminds Moomin of when they first met, chasing tales and tails of a comet across the earth.

Moomin whispers a new wish for each shooting star. Happiness for Mama, Papa, Little My, Snorkmaiden, and Sniff. He wishes the Hemulin will find new exciting flowers soon and that the Hobgoblin’s panther gets pats. He wishes for the floods to spare Papa’s books next year, and that the Mymble will still be traveling for a good many years. And finally, so quietly he doesn’t actually speak, he wishes on the brightest star for Snufkin to be safe. Safe during his next travels so invisibility will never return, safe so he can heal, and safe in Moominvalley as he recovers.

Snufkin wishes on the new moon, but Moomin believes in stars.

“Remember the comet,” he says quietly, and Snufkin hums as he thinks.

“It was long ago. But not too long, I think.”

“You asked us for coffee.”

“I remember that. I was so surprised to see fellow travelers on that lonely road.”

Moomin remembers, too. Snufkin had crawled out of his tent with that welcoming smile, and asked if they’d like to sit and talks in return for the coffee. He’d mispronounced his own name.

_Snoof-kin._

Moomin wonders, just for a second, if Snufkin had been missing paws back then. He remembers that Snufkin hadn’t had a tail and recalls the jovial tunes he’d played for them. He’d been hurting for so long.

“I think…” Snufkin hesitates, as though wishing he hadn’t begun the thought. He could let it trail off, and Moomin wouldn’t think any less of him. It would be fine. “I think I’m ready now. To talk, that is.”

Moomin looks back to the stars, though neither of them are really focusing on the streaks of light. He waits, because that’s what Moomin knows Snufkin needs. Snufkin needs someone to wait for him, to count on him returning without the pressure to do so. He needs Moomin, just as Moomin needs Snufkins playful tunes and wise words. So he waits.

 

 

Snufkin said it because it was true. He’s found the words, or at least some of them. So he remembers what happened and acknowledges how he is now. It’s time to grow past this, and if that means speaking it into existence, then that’s what he’ll do. It’s something new, something yet to be tried, and he’s ready to give it a chance.

“This happens sometimes,” Snufkin admits eventually. His words are slow, in the manner of someone considering each one carefully before it passes their lips. “When I was very little and not used to being an adventurer. Nobody taught me what roots you can eat and where the stars point. I had to figure most of it out from the birds gossip and what the mountain folk would tell me.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“It never came up.” He made sure of it, but here they are now. “Anyway, it seems the mountain folk haven’t changed at all.”

“What do you mean?” Moomin sits up in a hurry, and Snufkin can see his face lit by the embers of their campfire. Snufkin hums, knowing he could ask Moomin to drop it if he needed to. Part of him wants to talk it out, to have it said so that it can go away. Moomin settles back down, lacing their fingers as they look up at the stars.

“Sorry I asked.”

“It’s fine. I met a family, and they weren’t unkind, just difficult to be around. You know how I am.”

“Some people need more space than others.”

“Exactly. One of their sons was traveling to the next town as well.” Snufkin’s mouth goes dry, and he must swallow thickly before continuing.

“…I couldn’t get away,” he murmurs eventually. “I wanted to be alone, but he just kept following me. Always ‘just until the next town’ or ‘until the mountaintop.’ Whenever I tried to leave him, he’d just stare until I agreed.”

Moomin lets out a gusty breath. “That sounds dreadful. Hadn’t he ever thought that people need space?”

“It wasn’t just space. It was like there were things I had to say and do, and if I were anything but what they wanted me to be he’d just… wait for me to do it. Like he couldn’t imagine I were anyone but the picture he had created of me.”

Moomin squeezes his paw, and they let the thoughts sit between them. Snufkin thinks back to the winter, to trying to be alone, be himself, and having to cater to the needs of another without so much as an apology or thank-you. He’s over taken by a sudden rush of resentment at the memory.

“Haven’t people ever considered that I don’t exist solely to suit their needs?”

“Mama says there are all sorts of people out in the world.” Moomin shifts beside him. “She says the world is made up of all types.”

Snufkin nods at this. “Mama is very wise. There are lots of creatures out there.”

“Could you tell me about your travels?”

“Well… I didn’t meet many new folks this winter.”

“Then something from another winter.”

Snufkin nods, thinking back. Moomin’s been hearing of his travels since the first time they met. If he want’s something new, then…

“How about from before we met?”

“You mean when you were young?”

“Hmm. That makes us sound old.”

“Younger, then.”

Snufkin listens to an owl hoot off in the distance. He sorts through his memories of becoming a vagabond. He’d packed his bag and intended to leave in the morning. His mother had made sure he packed his toothbrush and a change of clothes as all good parents do when their children proclaim its time for them to run away. He remembers her kissing his forehead and reminding him to stay dry.

He remembers waking up with no idea of how to get home.

Moomin rolls over so he’s facing Snufkin, and the firelight behind him turns his white fur to a golden halo.

“Snufkin… you’re crying.”

“I suppose so,” Snufkin says shakily. He scrubs at his face, but it doesn’t do much besides wet his sleeves and make his eyes sting more. How long has it been since he last cried?

_Oh._

_The ocean._

Maybe he should be an ocean hermit who fishes for every meal and lives in a little hut above the tide. He would spend the day as he pleased without having to worry about silly things like invisibility and mountain folk who won’t leave him alone or crates in the river-

_No._

_That wouldn’t fix anything, would it?_

Perhaps it would help to talk. He can try, just once. Snufkin rubs a paw over his eyes, swallowing thickly. He’s forgotten how tears make speaking so terribly difficult.

 “It’s not my mother’s fault,” Snufkin starts eventually. “Or my father’s, really. They did their best, and when I ran away I’d only really meant to stay out for a night or two. It was just so loud inside, and I wanted to be alone for a bit. It’s not their fault I got lost.”

“You got lost?”

“Silly, isn’t it? They tell me I was found in a crate, but I’d really only climbed in for a nap. I was already lost, and when they found me, I wasn’t really found- not in the way that matters.”

“It’s not silly,” Moomin says, and a weight lifts from Snufkins chest. “I think it’s very sad.”

“Really?”

“Really. I think you shouldn’t have had to go through that, and it’s not silly at all. You’re the bravest person I know, Snufkin.” The soft way Moomin says it makes Snufkin feel light and warm, as though he may drift right up into the blazing sky.

“I don’t think so. Especially not with…” Snufkin gestures to his invisible face. “This happening.”

“Well you’re here, aren’t you? That’s got to count for something.” The sky paints itself with little falling stars as Moomin continues. “You’re still fighting.”

Snufkin watches his friend, rather than the sky in wonder as Moomin points out a constellation he’d read about. He hadn’t considered that trying was a sort of victory in its own way. When did Moomin get so wise?

They watch the open sky. Slowly the fire burns itself out until the wind picks up and Moomin has to go home. Snufkin needs his space, and after this past winter he cannot bear to sleep in the same tent as another. Moomin knows this without asking and twines their tails briefly before leaving for his own cozy bed.

 

 

 

Snufkin is disappointed. The morning is beautiful, cast in silvery greys as creatures begin to stir. Even the air is sharp and crisp like freshly cut apples and iced mint tea.

Everyone said that after talking, it would be okay. That they were here to listen, as though that were the cure. Snufkin tosses his fishing line into the stream, disturbing his reflection. He’s still invisible. Sure, it’s only his head that’s missing now, but why isn’t he back?

Wasn’t last night’s conversation enough?

Soft footfalls pad over, and Snufkin doesn’t have to look up to recognize his friend. He’s preoccupied with the heavy train of thought that’s been plaguing him since waking. “Hullo, Moomintroll.”

“My, it’s certainly been a while since that was my name.” Moominpapa’s voice is casual, and if he notices Snufkin’s surprise he doesn’t point it out. Instead, the elder Moomin leans against the bridge railing, watching the morning mist lift its downy blanket from the land. “Snufkin, I’ve got a real problem.”

“Oh,” Snufkin says, because even though he’s miserable doesn’t mean anyone else has to be. “What sort of problem?”

“That’s just the thing, my boy. I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve got plenty to write about, but nothing seems to fit. Perhaps a new adventure is in order.”

“But you just went out boating! And we had that meteor shower last night.”

Moominpapa waves all these ideas away. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. I need a real adventure, something to get the old pages turning again.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Snufkin says, reeling in his line and recasting it. He thinks for a second, remembering how he’s been trying to find the right words since entering this valley. The stream laps gently against bridge support columns, and Snufkin imagines they’re whispering the words he needs, the ones he should have spoken. “Maybe a change of pace isn’t enough.”

“Perhaps that’s the answer,” Moominnpapa hums all too quickly. He always was the type to make quick decisions, letting thoughts skim by like sailboats on the calm sea. That’s not to say there’s no depth, but he certainly came to conclusions faster than Snufkin would. The elder moomin claps Snufkin on the shoulder, a merry sparkle in his eye. “We’re both approaching things from the wrong angle.”

With that, he leisurely wanders back to Moominhouse, muttering to himself about this or that plan for his manuscript. Snufkin watches him go, turning the words over in his mind. There’s only one angle to approach his problem from, isn’t there? And that’s by telling his story. Except it failed, so he’s stuck waiting for fish to bite and visibility to seep back into his skin like Snorkmaidens tea into water. He’s stuck.

Maybe being visible just isn’t in the cards.

He sits, but the idea of never being visible is nearly unbearable to think about. He needs space, time to process. The morning is misty and quiet, but he knows it won’t be for long. He loves his friends dearly- he does – but they’ll be by soon, with plans for an adventure together and _talking._ He cannot handle conversation right now. Snufkin packs quickly, pausing briefly to straighten the bow on his tail, and folds up his tent. With a final glance at Moominhouse, he marches into the trees and is gone before the birdsong grows strong.

He doesn’t slow until halfway up the mountain. The crawling itch under his skin lessens once he’s sure nobody is following, and only then does Snufkin begin setting up a fire to make breakfast.

He spends the afternoon and following day on the mountain slopes, looking at interesting rocks and finding flowers to press. If he sits long enough, the silence sinks into his soul, like a little sanctuary. It’s all he needs. Slowly, moment by moment, Snufkin feels strong again.

When clouds start to hang higher in the sky and the wind stings his ears, the valley calls once more. Snufkin follows his heart down the dusty path. Birdsong swells, then quiets as a storm brews over the sea. It will come inland far down the coast, away from Moominvalley.

 

 

Too-ticky meets him on the way back. “Moominmama has a blackberry scone recipe my beloved is after. Thought I’d pop in,” She explains when asked. “Saw your hat on my way.” It’s all that really needs to be said. The silence is companionable, and both know it could go on forever without being awkward. When Too-ticky chooses to speak, the words are honest and genuine.

“You’re doing better,” she says. “I’m glad of that.”

“Thank you. For earlier, as well.”

Too-ticky shakes her head. “We’re all travelers in some way. Some paths are easier when walked together. Will you be staying until fall?”

Snufkin sighs wearily, tugging down his hat over a still-invisible face. “Maybe. It depends on…”

_If I’m visible_ , he doesn’t say, but Too-ticky seems to hear it anyway. She lets him think. Quiet sounds from the woods and a sweet, warm spring breeze seep into his thoughts. It’s a good day, but Snufkin can’t fully enjoy it. Not like this.

“I’ll be well in time,” Snufkin says hollowly, and Too-ticky stops on the path.

“Sounds to me like you’ve given up.”

Snufkin blinks, wholly not expecting this response. For all the rustling tree and bird trills, the forest might as well be dead silent to his ears.

Too-ticky frowns when he doesn’t respond and beckons him down the path. “Sure, it takes time, and I know you aren’t ready yet, but don’t say it as if you’ve given up. You’ve got to keep fighting, Snufkin. Even taking half or a quarter of a step forward is better than none at all.”

“It’s hard to,” Snufkin says quietly, hating himself just a bit for being so honest and open now even after doing so during the meteor shower still wasn’t enough.

“Then find something to work for. Step forward for you, for your healing, or for the taste of blueberries in summer. It doesn’t matter what so long as you move forward.”

Snufkin hesitates at this. Why has he been trying to heal, anyway. The answer comes readily enough.

“I don’t want anyone to worry,” he says but it feels flimsy, like he’s drowning at sea and the excuse isn’t enough to cling to. It’s not enough anymore. Too-ticky walks, waiting patiently as he struggles.

“I want spring to be normal again,” he tries again, and while this one’s better he’s still not there.

“Any reason is a good reason, so long as it’s honest and it’s yours,” she says, and Snufkin reaches deep into his heart for why he’s still in Moominvalley.

“I want to be visible for me,” he says, and it feels right.

Too-ticky smiles at this in her wise Too-ticky way, and Snufkin repeats the words just to hear them again.

“I want to be visible for me.”

What beautiful music words can be when they sing from a soul.

 

 

Days pass slowly. Moomin finds him one afternoon, insisting they go visit the beach. The sun is warm on Snufkin’s back as he bends over the shallows, searching for colorful rocks. Moomin sorts though the clam shells they’ve found.

“Snufkin?”

“Hm?”

“Why do some shells have a little hole in them, and others don’t?”

Snufkin wades back, sunlight flashing off the waters surface and casting patterns on his shirt- it’s too warm for the coat today. “Well, let’s see.”

Moomin offers his latest find, a sun-bleached shell with deep purple on it’s underside. A perfect little hole has been drilled through the base. Snufkin reaches into his pocket for some string, explaining as he passes it through. “Some hungry creature decided to have a snack. They had to drill through the shell to get at whatever was hidden inside.” He ties the makeshift necklace around Moomin’s neck and heads back to the sea.

Moomin joins him after a moment in the icy water. “That sounds awfully difficult.”

“I suppose so.”

They gather shells a while longer, and Snufkin finds himself staring out at the endless horizon. Saltwater laps at his rolled-up trousers and sand is sprinkled through his hair, but this? This is where he is meant to be. Snufkin dearly loves the water. He breathes in the salt air and thinks how good it is to be here.

Waves slosh as Moomin wades over and slips his paw into Snufkin’s.

“Snufkin?” His voice is tight. When Snufkin blinks open his eyes, Moomin is watching him carefully. “You’re visible.”

_What?_

“I can see your face Snufkin, I think- I think you’re all visible again.”

Sure enough, that’s his reflection. Snufkin laughs merrily and holds tight to Moomin’s paws as they dance in circles. The water splashes his shirt and rolled up pants but it’s worth it when Moomin looks at him- actually at him, not just a guess of where his eyes are. This is worth it. 

The ocean glitters behind them as they race across the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course it's the ocean that does it.
> 
> Hey!!!! Sometimes life is hard, and it takes time to fully recover. There are a ton of ways you can try to heal from what's happened. Some will work. Some won't. What matters is that you keep trying. Any reason to keep going is a good reason, so long as it's yours. Stay strong and take it one step at a time. Remember to take care of yourself along the way.
> 
> I hope this fic was able to help some of y'all - it was awesome to write and I've loved hearing from everyone in the comments. Love y'all <3

**Author's Note:**

> I want to add that snufkin's trouble in the mountains is based on several conversations I've had with other introverts and,,, a lot of them have experienced this. We haven't seen it in fiction at all, so I figured I'd put it in this fic. I hope it's relatable and/or healing to at least one person reading this. You're not alone. <3


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